The Protector (Game of Chance, #1)(92)

Which was a lie.

Anyone who got to know Carla wouldn’t bother with her, period. While she was beautiful on the outside . . . inside, she was a horrible, awful person.

June was bending to grab the bucket of dirty water when the door to the backyard opened, and she heard toenails clacking on the floor. She turned to yell “No!” but it was too late. Her stepsister’s two spoiled-rotten corgis ran into the room, leaving muddy footprints all over her previously clean floor.

“Oh, dear,” Carla sighed in the most insincere tone June had ever heard. “They got the floor all muddy. Guess you’ll have to stay up late to deal with it. Come on, Pookie and Snookie. Time for bed.” And with that, June’s mean, equally spoiled-rotten stepsister swept out of the room, her two dogs at her heels.

June blinked fast to keep the tears at bay.

She lived in a big, gorgeous house, and from the outside looking in, she knew it might seem she had a perfect life. If only people knew. After her father died when she was fifteen, she’d been devastated. She’d assumed her new stepmother and stepsister would feel the same, that she wouldn’t grieve alone . . . but instead, they’d seemed almost thrilled.

The money from his life insurance had immediately gone toward all the material things they hadn’t been able to buy when her dad was alive.

June didn’t care about cars, clothes, or designer handbags. All she wanted was her dad back. He was the only person who’d ever loved her for who she was. A slightly awkward, plump, shy woman who’d rather stay home and read than socialize.

In the years since, she’d turned into her family’s maid more than a daughter or sister. She cleaned, drove Carla to her modeling appointments, maintained the bills, cooked, and generally did whatever she was told.

She was a real-life Cinderella—and she hated it. She hated that fairy tale, because no rich prince was going to swoop in and save her from her dismal life. She’d have to work up the nerve to save herself.

June had been hoarding money. Money left over from grocery runs, the odd bill here and there as she cleaned the house. Soon, she’d leave. She had no idea where she’d go, but wherever it was, she wasn’t going to be anyone’s poor relation ever again.

Prince Charming?

Bah. He didn’t exist.





Find out what happens when Cal heads south and meets June in the second book in the Game of Chance series, The Royal. You know he’s gonna get knocked on his butt! Read the first chapter below and preorder the book now!





THE ROYAL

GAME OF CHANCE SERIES, BOOK 2





Chapter One


Callum “Cal” Redmon pulled his Rolls-Royce Cullinan into the Greens’ driveway on the outskirts of Washington, DC. Traffic had been terrible, and he was in an awful mood. His back hurt, his knees were throbbing, and he had a horrible headache. Ever since he’d been a POW and had been relentlessly tortured, his body hadn’t been the same. He felt as if he was at least twenty years older than his thirty-seven years.

The last place he wanted to be was here. He’d told his relatives that he wasn’t a bodyguard. That ever since he’d gotten out of the military, he didn’t want anything to do with weapons, being covert, or any kind of security. And yet . . . here he was.

Being part of the Liechtenstein royal family wasn’t easy. Even though he hadn’t grown up in the tiny country, and even though he barely knew the queen and king, he was still expected to be loyal. Still expected to drop everything to do their bidding when they asked. So when Carla Green had told his second cousin—whom she’d met online—that she was being stalked and was scared, his cousin had reached out to Cal to see what he could do about it.

When Cal, being Cal, had told him he couldn’t do anything about his latest online model friend’s personal life, that she should call the local police, his cousin had dug in his heels. He’d talked to his mom, who’d talked to her sister, who’d spoken with the queen. She, in turn, had called Cal’s parents . . . and the next thing he knew, he was being guilted into driving to DC to “investigate” the situation.

Cal wasn’t qualified to do a damn thing about Carla’s problem. Yes, he could shoot, was a damn good shot, in fact. But that didn’t necessarily make him qualified to be a bodyguard. He could barely handle his own body.

Most days, his very bones hurt. The beatings he’d received as a POW had screwed him up, bad. Torn ligaments, broken bones, pulled muscles . . . those were just the tip of the iceberg. Technically, all the injuries he’d sustained had healed, but the effects were ongoing, and his scars—inside and out—were many.

Not only that, but Cal didn’t particularly like people. He was grumpy on the worst of days, and standoffish on the best. He’d seen the worst humanity had to offer, and he much preferred to hole up in the house he’d bought in the small Maine town where he and his friends had settled after they’d gotten out of the military.

Thanks to his royal lineage and parents who’d invested their family money carefully, Cal never had to worry about the size of his bank account. No one would know simply by looking at him that he had over a billion dollars in his portfolio. Most days he wore jeans and long-sleeve T-shirts, and he definitely didn’t flaunt the fact that he had money, and lots of it.